


Ram Horns and Duck Feathers

by GhostOfAFern



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Alexis | Quackity Needs a Hug, Dream Smp, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Pre-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Sheep Hybrid Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), seriously though if abuse triggers you don’t read this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29943057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostOfAFern/pseuds/GhostOfAFern
Summary: This wasn’t the first time he’d been in this position, the mad ram starts drinking, starts really drinking, and Quackity retreats to his office, and cowers beneath his desk, covering his ears until he passes out from exhaustion.He hates those nights.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt
Kudos: 40





	Ram Horns and Duck Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> just a quick warning that this fic displays the abusive dynamic between schlatt and quackity on the dream smp!! if that’s gonna trigger you take care of yourself and please don’t read!!
> 
> this fic is about the dream smp characters, not the real life people. enjoy!

When Quackity awoke, he was immediately greeted by a stiff pain snaking from his neck throughout his whole body. The aching pain sharpened in his joints, as he was involuntarily stirred awake by his skin touching the cold linoleum floor beneath him. He gathered his bearings for a moment, and places a hand on the top of his head, preemptively protecting himself from hitting it against the top of the desk he sat beneath as he got up, something he had already done one too many times.

Rising with trembling, still half-asleep legs, he propped himself up on his desk, and glanced at the red glow of the digital clock sitting on his desk. 8:24 AM. The whole cabinet should be up right now. He figured he would need to get himself up before he missed some sort of meeting he’d forgotten about. 

But, on the other hand, if the whole cabinet was waking up around now... _ so was Schlatt. _

Quackity waved away the concern. Schlatt was sure to be sober by now, and even if he wasn’t, he could go find Fundy and Tubbo in a pinch. Schlatt always seemed to, in a way, compose himself around Tubbo. He would always pull Quackity into another room before letting him have it if Tubbo was around, and he tried not to get drunk in front of him.

Well, not too drunk anyway. It would be a cold day in hell before you’d find Schlatt without some alcohol circling around in his blood. His tolerance was surprisingly high, and for the amount that would get Quackity to blackout, Schlatt would barely even be tipsy. 

Quackity sighed, throwing his blazer over his shoulder, tightening his tie a bit, and stumbling over to the door. He lingered at the handle for a second. He couldn’t explain why. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in this position, the mad ram starts drinking, starts _ really drinking,  _ and Quackity retreats to his office, and cowers beneath his desk, covering his ears until he passes out from exhaustion.

He hates those nights, the nights where Schlatt doesn’t give up easy. The nights where he drinks so much that his venomous demeanor suddenly shifts into a saccharine loneliness, and Quackity grips his hand over his mouth, forcing himself not to cry, not to give in to his husband’s honeyed pleas for him to come out from hiding and embrace the corpse stumbling through the white house halls.

He took a deep breath, before practically falling onto the handle.  _ Right, sleepy legs.  _ Steadying himself, he peered down both ends of the hall, cautiously walking out of his office, greeted only by the gazes of the haunted portraits strewn on the walls. 

Schlatt, within the first day of living in the whitehouse, decided it fitting to adorn the walls of the hallway with photographs and paintings of the nation’s decidedly  _ bloody _ past. The painting side of things had a tendency for dishonesty, Schlatt commissioning art that portrayed Tommy and Wilbur as bumbling fools, or cruel tyrants. The largest painting of them all hung above the doorway to the oval office, and was the first thing you’d see walking into the white house. It pictured Schlatt front and center, a raised hand, stood behind a podium. Quackity, and Fundy stood on each side of him, but they were vastly overshadowed by the detail put into Schlatt himself. 

Looking at the painting gave Quackity a strange pit in his stomach. He couldn’t help but look at it with a sort of recognition. The Schlatt depicted above the office doors wasn’t the same one that grabbed Quackity by the chin to make sure they made eye contact when berating him. It wasn’t the same one that would playfully wave a gun around when drunk, and it wasn’t the same one that performatively held Quackity’s hand in public, gripping it in a way he felt he might break his fingers at any second. 

The man in the portrait looked confident, like a leader you could trust. His hair was neatly slicked back, his facial hair neatly trimmed, framing his face perfectly, and the light reflected off his horns like every ray was its own sunset. It was the man who Quackity fell in love with, the one who tenderly kissed him when he agreed to marry him.

The portrait was glowing, radiant. The man Quackity found inside the kitchen looked sickly, like he had died long ago but his corpse refused to stay down. He didn’t say anything, just looked at Schlatt as he clawed around for a mug and turned on the coffee maker. His legs bent unevenly, and he hunched over the counter, gripping his temples.

“God...fucking…” he groaned, slamming his palm onto the counter. “This hangover is killing me…” He impatiently tapped his finger onto the granite, glaring at the slowly filling coffee pot. When the coffee reached the fill line, he snatched it off the machine, pouring it into the mug lazily, spilling it all over the counter. “Dammit!” He shouted, shoving the pot back into the slot on the machine, and taking a swig of his mug before slamming it onto the counter and letting out a hoarse growl. “TUBBO!” Schlatt shouted expectantly.

“Hey.” Quackity offered instead. He subconsciously snaked along the wall of the room, making his way to the fridge. “What’s up?”

“Where’s Tubbo?” He demanded. “I need someone to clean this shit up.” 

“I’ll take care of it in a minute.” Quackity shrugged. “How’s the hangover treating you?”

“Don’t give me an attitude, bitch.” Schlatt hissed. “Where were you last night, anyway?”

“Fell asleep at my desk again.” Quackity lied, shutting the fridge door, unable to find an appetite for anything inside. 

“You gotta quit doing that shit.” He took another drawn out sip from his coffee. “You’re gonna fuck up your posture.” He grinned at Quackity. “Then you won’t be able to throw it back for me anymore.” Quackity feigned a laugh. He used to bathe in the praise he got from Schlatt. Now every catcall felt hollow, like there was nothing else to him than his appearances, his usefulness to Schlatt. 

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” The apology only earned him a distrusting glare. They both knew it was hollow, so Quackity never tried to pretend it wasn’t. He didn’t offer Schlatt the respect he demanded, just an acute sense of fear that never lessened. 

It made Quackity want to vomit, when he realized it for the first time. He had laid awake one night, staring longingly at the ceiling. Schlatt was beside him in their bed, on his side staring at the wall. He was pretending to be asleep, but Quackity knew. He was too familiar with Schlatt’s breathing patterns when he slept, always aware of just how much of a threat his husband posed to him at all times. That awareness terrified him.

_ (“SHUT YOUR MOUTH!” Schlatt ordered. “I’m so sick of your shit! Always yapping, yapping, YAPPING!” He slammed a bottle down on the counter and let out a shaky groan. Quackity tensed up, clenching fists at his sides. He couldn’t decide if he was hurt, or if he was pissed beyond belief. Regardless, tears welled at the edges of his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks if he attempted to get a single word out. _

_ “I was-” He took a deep breath, blinking away some tears. “I was only trying to help you.” Schlatt glared and walked over to him, and as Quackity looked to the floor, he violently grabbed his chin, forcing it towards him, looking the man dead in the eye.  _

_ “I don’t  _ need _ your goddamn help.” Schlatt told him, not breaking eye contact for a second. “I’m the one in charge here.  _ I  _ am the face of Manburg.  _ Your _ job is to sit next to me and look pretty.” Quackity grimaced, and a smirk spread across Schlatt’s face.  _

_ “YOU BASTARD!” Quackity shoved him away, letting the tears fall without a care. “I’m supposed to be your vice president! I’m supposed to be your  _ husband! _ ” He furiously wiped away tears, unable to see Schlatt through them. “But fuck me for trying!” _

_ “You say vice president like it means something.” Schlatt argues back. “You're the backup plan, and when I die, this country comes down with me. Your position means jack shit.” _

_ “You wouldn’t even BE president if it weren’t for me!” _

_ “AND YOU WOULDN’T BE WORTH A GODDAMN THING WITHOUT ME!” _

_ “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Quackity sobbed, before his vision flashed black, and when he opened his eyes, his face was sore and he was on the floor. His vision blurred back into focus, and he looked up on Schlatt, who had a horrified expression on his face. His husband looked down at his hand, then back at Quackity, before rushing to the floor, kneeling beside him. _

_ Schlatt grabbed Quackity’s face gently, muttering ‘no’s’ and apologies under shaken breaths. He looked sorrowfully into his husband’s eyes, who stared back dazed and confused, before pulling him into an embrace _

_ “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”) _

“Schlatt?” Quackity asked, stopping him in the doorway. “I love you.” Every nerve in Schlatt’s body froze up.  _ I love you? That’s what you say? _ He wasn’t sure what to say back. ‘ _ I love you too’ _ sat on the edges of his lips, but he couldn’t manage to get it out.

Schlatt wanted so badly to say it, to tell his husband that  _ yes, after everything, I still love you. _ He wanted to erase the past, take back every shout, every slap, to just for once when they went to bed to be able to wrap his arms around Quackity.

So what was Schlatt meant to say when Quackity told him he loved him? His heart sank as he realized the only thing his mouth would let him say.

“I told you you were an idiot.” 


End file.
